


The Orchestrator

by mudgems



Series: The Architect [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt Loki (Marvel), Loki (Marvel) Feels, Loki (Marvel) Gets a Hug, Loki (Marvel) Has Issues, Loki (Marvel) Lives, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Loki (Marvel)-centric, Loki is not a hero, Loki's a goddamn mess, Memories, Norse Bro Feels, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, POV Thor (Marvel), Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Siblings, The Avengers (2012) Compliant, Thor (Marvel) Feels, Thor (Marvel) is Not Stupid, Thor (Marvel) is a Good Bro, Time Travel, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-06 04:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17932676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudgems/pseuds/mudgems
Summary: Armed with the Time Stone, Thor visits his brother after the Battle of New York. Can he convince a bitter and damaged Loki to help him in the fight against Thanos, or is the universe doomed to suffer the effects of The Snap?





	1. Chapter 1

Thor finds his brother sitting, his posture bent in defeat but his spirit far from broken.

If Loki has ever been anything at all, it is persistently defiant.

His armour is rent in places, his resplendent battle garb dulled and ripped. He favours his right side, his bloodied face turned from the approach of his self-styled jailors.

Thor remembers this spectacle well. What he does not fully recall is the detail, the way each anomaly and indignity stands out against the picture of this scene he holds in his mind. 

The dark smudge of bruising high against a cheekbone. The way his brother’s fingers clutch a little too tightly at his surcoat. The hitch to his breathing. The hollows and the lines that stand out in stark relief where before they seemed to fade into shadow. All the signs that are so obvious now, now that he cares to look. 

Thor swipes the card Stark has prepared for him through a seam in a panel by the glass. With a hiss of compressed air the door to the cell slides open.

The space beyond is more compact than the cylindrical cage that lies in fresh pieces on the surface of Midgard. Even crowded as it now is with Thor’s bulk at the entrance, there seems to be an almost insurmountable distance between him and the man he’s come to find.

The quiet is broken by a chuckle and a low murmur, though the back Thor must address remains deliberately turned against him. 

“Are you angry with me, brother?” 

Loki’s tone is mockery and derision, the endearment insincere.

Something clenches tight behind Thor’s ribs. His mouth goes dry, the words he has prepared and rehearsed deserting him all at once. He had braced himself for this -- for coldness, for disdain, for a reception of scorn and vitriol -- but to actually receive it, to face its full force with events still so recent and raw in his mind, with hope and anticipation still so sweet and fresh in his breast… It is like a lance to his aching, vulnerable heart. 

What he feels more than anything is pride. Pride and sorrow and love and regret.

“No,” Thor says simply, quietly. “No, I am not angry with you.”

Anger could not be further from what he feels this time.

This answer is not one Loki expects. Thor’s brother straightens almost imperceptibly where he sits hunched forward, something changing in his bearing that Thor cannot quite identify. There is a vague sense of unease in the air now, and already Thor fears he has dashed what small hope he had of success.

Speaking with Loki always was like navigating a maze Thor had no map to. One riddled with pitfalls, traps and unseen hazards.

“I do not want you here,” Loki says to the wall, all pretence at even a dark and mocking humour dropped. “Go.” 

Thor does not go. He has come too far, risked and lost and sacrificed too much to be turned away by Loki’s denial of him now.

“I have something to ask of you,” Thor says instead, and Loki’s shoulders hitch minutely towards his ears. “I will not leave until you grant it.”

The pause is heavy and tight with tension, the silence of the room loud in Thor’s ears. Loki breaks it with a snort.

“Always so dramatic,” he mutters to cover the hesitation. Then with more heat: “I owe you nothing.”

“But I would ask this of you anyway,” Thor responds.

Loki huffs, annoyed. “Ask then, but expect no favour from me.” 

Thor waits, and he feels his brother’s impatience in the palpable prickling of the air. This is something he would say to Loki’s face, and he will not let him cheapen the moment with a display of childish pique. Thor sighs when it seems Loki will not oblige him, his disappointment a weight he knew to expect but resents carrying all the same. 

“Loki. Brother. Will you not look at me?”

The laughter is low, mirthless and dark. And still Loki does not turn.

“You are no brother of mine,” Loki says with ominous calm, and though the declaration comes as no surprise, his next words do. “You are not in fact _my_ Thor at all, are you?”

Thor’s silence must give him away, because it prompts Loki finally to turn, a sharp and cunning grin stretched across his face. Thor’s breath catches in his lungs despite the ugly expression.

 _Brother_.

Even as his heart swells to look upon the face of his brother once more, his eyes are drawn to the dirt and the blood, the evidence of a swift and ignominious downfall, the physical tale of all the ways Thor has failed him. The nasty smirk speaks of this too, though the pain it inflicts is not the kind Loki would intend. Instead of disappointment, Thor feels only grief and a crushing compassion.

Loki allows his eyes to rake over Thor’s frame from top to toe with lazy distaste. His gaze lingers overlong on the scarring Thor will always carry around his eye and at the crop of hair Thor thinks he will never quite become accustomed to. There is meaning in everything Loki does, and the cruel message does not escape Thor in this instance. “The years to come suit you ill,” Loki says as he turns back around, dismissing Thor once again.

How Loki can know of Thor’s long journey, Thor cannot guess. He always has been a fey creature, his ways kept close and his secrets closer. And he was a master of observation from the time they were children, a life spent skirting the fringes of court life the only teacher a liesmith might ever need. Where Thor’s power had always lain in strength, whether the strength of his arm or the strength of his character, Loki’s currency was that of knowledge. Thor’s pride swells that little more even now to witness it being counted once again. 

“You do not ask how I come to be here,” Thor observes. He knows better than to ask Loki for an explanation outright. After all these years, he seems finally to be learning these lessons. 

“I care not,” Loki’s voice tells him, though the lie is loud for all to hear.

“Hmm. I think that unlikely.” Thor moves to sit, the sweet relief to the ache in his muscles enough to help ease him into this familiar game. “Shall I tell you the tale? It is one of heroic deeds and mighty feats.” And pain. And death. And tragedy.

The sigh Loki releases is quiet enough that Thor knows it to be genuine. He shifts his position slowly, his careful movements favouring the injuries Thor knows will still be healing. He swings his long legs over the edge of the ledge on which he is awkwardly reclined and allows the momentum to bring him a little further upright, though it is clear to Thor that he dare not straighten fully. Instead he leans his forearms on his knees, his eyes gleaming at his uninvited visitor through the matting of his hair. For all his obvious hurts the effect is somewhat sinister, and Thor is reminded once more of the reputation his brother has earned for himself among those who do not love him as Thor always will.

Loki does not want to play this game. His role is usually one of faux-innocence and patience while he bides his time, waiting for an opening to cut his opponent down. Today he refuses even this much courtesy, and Thor finds he mourns its loss despite years of frustration and humiliation at its mercy. 

Thor tries a weak smile despite it all, but Loki’s hard expression remains the same.

“Come now,” Thor says, his heart not really in it. “This is the part where you mock my ignorance and steal my thunder. Don’t be such a spoilsport.”

The attempt at levity is clearly a wasted one. 

Loki leans forward just slightly with an effortless menace. His lips peel back from his teeth as he spits out his words. “I can taste the reek of power on you. You _stink_ of it.”

Thor jerks back in surprise before he can catch himself.

Ah. So the issue is exposed at last. He should have guessed this. His use of the stone still crackles across his nerves and sits heavily in the vertebrae of his lower back, like a weight wrestled into submission but fought at much cost. 

His little brother sees much, it seems.

He knows it is unwise, but Thor cannot contain the satisfaction that lifts the corners of his mouth, the relief and the absurdity of it all manifesting as wry amusement. He has had so little experience of the upper hand in conversations such as this that he must admit a small part of him is pleased to revel in superiority for a moment or two.

Loki misinterprets this mirth as he is often quick to do, and his ugly expression sours further with what Thor first takes for anger. 

Thor is too slow to rescue the mood (poor though it already is). He has realised his mistake too late. 

It is not needled pride that he has provoked. No. It is fear.

Something sharpens in the air around them both, a prickling energy that bodes ill indeed.

Loki leans forward further still. “Come to kill me, creature of Thanos? Come to do your master’s bidding in payment for my failure?”

The pause Thor cannot afford stretches long for all his efforts to contain it.

“You judge me hastily, brother. Whatever it is you think, I promise you are mistaken.”

Loki barks a harsh sound that Thor takes for mirthless laughter. “Empty words and hollow promises. What else am I to expect from an emissary of darkness? From one drunk with a power he could never take without aid? From one who must be given what he cannot earn?”

It is a mistake. A lapse in judgement. A hasty rebuttal. Almost as soon as the words leave his mouth, Thor knows this to be true.

“Of whom do we speak now, Loki? You, or I?”

Yes. Thor knows he is nothing if not rash.

For all his apparent weakness, it would seem there is malice enough there still to fuel Loki’s rage. He lunges from his seat with uncoordinated strength and an animal snarl. Thor is swift enough to capture the hands that claw for his throat but is unable to prevent being knocked from his seat. Loki tackles him to the ground, and torn between protecting himself and his injured brother both, it’s all Thor can do to hold Loki at arm’s length as he thrashes and rails against him.

Loki spits and hisses at him like a demon, screeches of frustration accompanying every thwarted attempt to land a strike. Thor holds fast and turns his face from the worst of it, his clothing tearing and muscles screaming with the effort of containing such raw ire. 

And Thor is sorry. He’s sorry for the vitriol that pours from Loki, for the contempt he has inspired in one once so close, for the centuries of slow rot that has led, somehow, to this.

This is no mere display of hatred. This is no righteous smiting or demonstration of strength. This is a lancing of poison, an uncontrolled fire. This is the first genuine outpouring of emotion Thor has seen from Loki for a long time. 

It lasts longer than Thor cares to count.

Loki is flushed and breathing hard by the time he starts to subside, and as his struggles become weaker Thor lowers him to slump against his chest. They lay in that forced embrace for some time, the silence broken only by their exploding breaths. It is an almost familiar end to what could have been a simple childhood spat, though Thor feels the serious weight of this moment like he never has before.

It is Loki who finally pulls away, rolling forcefully to the side with a wince and a small noise of pain. He props himself gingerly against the wall of the cell. Thor raises himself to sit as well and studies his brother miserably. All the fight has left them both. They are a sorry sight for it.

He thinks perhaps Loki will say something -- anything -- to break this unbearable quiet. He waits, giving Loki time, offering him space, an apology in the way he neither pushes for more nor presses closer. It is torturous, but it is necessary. His brother won’t even look at him.

Loki spits a pat of blood to the floor in front of him and rakes a trembling hand through his hair. He is eerily expressionless.

“We are finished, Thor,” Loki eventually supplies. “When this is all over I want nothing more to do with you.”

This dispassionate statement might be the most frightening Thor has ever heard Loki utter.

This is not how this day was supposed to go. This is not how his plan was to work. There is so much at stake here -- the weight of the universe is the burden he carries -- and yet already he is floundering. He is as much at the mercy of Loki’s opinion of him as he ever was, and even with the fate of the universe hanging in the balance, he cannot help but be drawn into this age old battle. 

Despite all he knows of the coming years, despite the certainty that this can be salvaged, that they _have_ salvaged so much already, Thor cannot help but feel crushed. Those old emotions, so long since put behind him, so arrogantly dismissed in all his new wisdom, come piling back in an instant. For a moment, it is all he can do just to breathe.

Loki glances at him from the corner of his eye and sees enough to warrant a closer look. He squints at Thor and frowns. 

“What are you… are you _weeping_?”

If his anguish shows more fully at this, Thor doesn’t care to hide it. He beats a closed fist against his own chest, the pain there threatening to consume him. “And what if I am? I bear no shame for it. I bear no shame for mourning the kinship we once shared. We are _brothers_.”

“I swear, if you call me that one more time--”

“You’ll what? You’ll deny it? As you’ve done before when it suited you, and forgotten when you’ve dropped your pretence of hate?”

“Rage all you like, Thor. It makes the thing no less true.” 

Thor will not have it. He simply _will not have it_. “What, then? What name would you have me call you by if not that? I can think of none I like better.”

Loki’s sneer hides something vicious and broken. It is hard to look at. “Fine words you speak now. You forget the many others you have spoken before. Here, I have some more for you. What of ‘liar’? Or ‘monster’? Or ‘ _traitor_ ’? They are no less true, but now that they are no longer _convenient_ \--” 

“I have never labelled you these things.” 

“No. But they are deserved, are they not?” 

Thor does not answer this. The trap is well laid, and there is no way to negotiate safe passage. Even half-truths can cut deeper than lies, and Loki is clever enough to turn even double-edged blades to his advantage. 

The slight curve of Loki’s mouth speaks both of cruel satisfaction and bitter triumph.

“There,” he says into Thor’s silence. “Agreement at last.”

He moves slowly to stand, leaning heavily against the cell wall as he hauls himself painfully upright. Thor watches miserably from the floor, the power to move momentarily lost to him.

“Why do you always do this?” Thor asks, more to himself than to his opponent. “Why must you always draw out the worst of me and claim it for yourself? Why must you invent new ways for me to wrong and wound you even when I strive to do otherwise?”

“Is that what I’m doing? I rather thought I was stating the obvious. It’s what you are thinking, even if you are too craven to admit it. Only traitors and monsters earn a prison. Only proven liars have their every word contested.”

Thor shakes his head, his words coming quick and without thought in his passion. “And I will not allow you to twist _my_ every word and deed in this way. I will not be made to play a part in this cruel game you are playing.”

There is something like pity in the small smile that Loki allows. “There, you see? Even when you seek to defend me you perpetuate the crime. I know what I am, Thor. You need not deny it for my sake.”

It cuts Thor deep to hear this, but it is not a novel pain. Loki’s words always were his keenest weapons. 

Thor inhales a deep breath and allows his eyes to close. He must put this petty squabbling to one side if he’s to get anywhere, though a part of him recognises this fight as but a taste of all that still lays beneath an undisturbed surface. Thor reminds himself that he has lived past this day, that he and Loki both have come to terms with their place in each other’s lives, that there is time still to correct all that Thor knows he is yet to address. 

This is of course what he’s come here to do for Loki, after all.

Thor rises to stand. “You think to bait me, but I will not allow you to provoke me to anger. Not this time. Not with all I know now.” 

Loki now is bold, his confidence bolstered by Thor’s momentary falter. For all his self-professed disinterest, it seems his appetite for the spar can always be stoked by a sign of weakness. “And what is it that you know?” he asks sweetly. “Enlighten me. Bestow upon me your wisdom, oh great traveller in time.Teach me the lesson you would have me learn.”

“I know that you did not intend this. That you have made a mistake you regret. That you are caught up in something that has got out of hand but that your pride will not allow you to admit it.”

Loki swallows a growl and whirls to pace, his stiffness leaving him in his pique.

“Who are you to judge _me_? You who would see me in chains, who would have me caged like an animal, disgraced for all to see--”

“No, Loki. That is not what I want. That has _never_ been what I’ve wanted. You know that.”

“Oh do I indeed? Then please forgive my obvious doubt. You will be the one to escort me home, I take it. A hero’s welcome awaits, I’m sure.” 

Thor will not lie. Loki would not believe him, and anyway, he has promised himself this much at least. “You will return home, and I will be the one to take you. What awaits you there will be in your hands as much as it ever was in mine.”

“Ah, so this is to be your prophecy. Cryptic riddles and bland assurances. No more than I should have expected, I suppose.”

“You know full well what to expect. You have hurt me, and I will be angry with you. I don’t expect you to be patient, but you might try to remember that I only ever want to help you, Loki.”

Loki stalks away from him with a look of disgust. “You claim you are not my enemy. Do not pretend to be my saviour.”

“As you wish. Then let us speak no more of the immediate future. My purpose here looks ahead much farther than that.”

“Yes,” Loki murmurs, his gaze passing through his own reflection in the tall glass that encompasses his cell. “I imagine it does. You have not come here to free me, I notice.”

Perhaps if Thor could be confident Loki would not run. Perhaps if he could trust him. Perhaps…

“Where is he, Loki?” Thor asks softly. “Tell me how I can find him.”

It is clear to Thor that Loki knows of what they speak. It is clear in the way the tension loosens from his shoulders, in the deliberate way he relaxes his face, in the casual stance he effects as he turns. He feigns ignorance as poorly as any master craftsman asked to lower their standards. His effort of will must be strong indeed to set aside his true feelings so readily.

“I don’t know what makes you think I would have such knowledge,” Loki says with a sniff. “Or that I would share it with you even if I did.” He seats himself primly back on the bunk, the only small comfort afforded to him in this otherwise empty cell. He leans back against the wall and allows his eyes to close. A clear dismissal. A demonstration of contempt. A final gambit to refuse Thor his satisfaction.

Thor is not riled by this as he may once have been. He knows this act for what it is. “You need not play this part with me. You are a skilled actor, but you forget my advantage in this game.” 

A single eye cracks open, allowing Loki to regard Thor down is nose. Thor waits.

“Really Thor. You credit me with too much insight. How should I know the Mad Titan’s movements? I cannot read minds.”

The almost familiar exchange makes something squeeze tightly behind Thor’s ribs. He inclines his head. “Of course. You’re not a witch.”

Loki frowns slightly but otherwise ignores this. His eye closes again. “You make less and less sense the longer you stay. And you’re starting to bore me.”

“I know where you have been since you fell from the Bifrost. I know you have knowledge of that place and the ways between it and here. And I know you receive your orders through the Chitauri leader. You have told me as much yourself, though I had to pry it out of you at the time.”

This interests Loki at last, it seems. He stares at Thor in silence, his final defence a refusal to speak at all. Thor must be merciless. He must continue this gentle torture. He has no choice.

“He is an enemy,” Thor presses on. “Perhaps the most dangerous we will ever face. You know that as well as I, though you would ally yourself with him to survive. I see that now, even if I contrived not to before. He is powerful, and he means to cause us much harm, but he is not invincible. Not if I can reach him in time.”

The lingering threads of the Time Stone’s power thrums along Thor’s veins, searing his blood and picking at his mind. Time is a weapon he has now at his command, though he does not fool himself it is entirely under his control. Such treacherous, fickle and indifferent entities as the stones are, they can never be relied upon entirely. They play on the mind and whisper to the darkest aspects of the soul. They feed on ambition, on injured pride, on betrayal. The promise of vengeance they offer is sweet. 

Thor looks at Loki where he sits on the bunk, rigid and brittle and likely to shatter at the merest application of force. 

Yes. The seductive power of the stones is insidious indeed. 

“If I am to stop him,” Thor presses, “if I am to fix all this, I will need your help, brother.” 

Still Loki does not speak. The hand not braced against some unseen hurt at his side fists tightly around the lip of the bunk.

Thor tries the one last angle he can think to leverage. The one that has never failed to bring his brother on side before now. “He has wronged you, that much is clear. I do not call it betrayal, as that would imply an equal footing we both know he does not recognise. You have a score to settle, and I will lend you my arm in the fight. It has grown stronger these past years, I can promise you that. As has my rage. Come, brother. Let us face him together.” 

Loki stands so abruptly that it takes Thor aback, though he holds his ground well enough in the end. He will not flinch back from one he knows so well ( _you do not know him as well as you would claim_ , an insidious inner voice whispers) and he will not turn (again) from his brother’s obvious distress.

Loki’s clenched fists tremble at his sides, his teeth bared in a snarl that Thor is grieved to recognise. There is fear there. Fear and desperation and a dangerous edge of something else.

The words explode from Loki, uncontrolled and frightening for it. “Do not speak to me of what you do not understand! You have no _idea_ what you’re dealing with.”

Thor sees that he has at last dropped his gambit of denial. He does not truly believe Thor to be under Thanos’ thumb. Not anymore.

“Then tell me,” Thor implores. “Tell me where he is so I can see for myself.”

Loki raises a trembling hand to his temple to tap his fingers hard against his skin. He is wide-eyed and frenetic, the _thwap thwap thwap_ of this forceful action adding a manic flavour to his words.

“Here, Thor,” he hisses urgently, leaning forward. “Thanos is right _here_.”

It is not the answer he needs, nor is it an answer he likes overmuch. Loki vibrates with a strange tension Thor is loathe to recognise, and though his first instinct is to offer comfort, he must first draw Loki out, if he can.

“It is the Mind Stone, is it not?” Thor presses. “That is the means by which you are connected. The sceptre--”

A sound of wordless protest interrupts Thor’s words. Loki begins to pace, hands wringing in increasingly frantic motions before him. He appears hunted, something that disturbs Thor on a level he cannot fathom. To see Loki so stripped of self-control -- it is a sight that tilts his world off its axis. 

“Even if I wanted to help you,” Loki says, “and believe me, I _don’t_ , your precious mortals would never surrender their war prize so readily.” He laughs shakily. “You are undone by your very allies.”

“Again you forget,” Thor answers. “I have the benefit of experience and friends who would aid me against their past selves. It would be a simple thing to secure whatever I need.”

Perhaps it is a mistake to threaten so baldly. It is certainly an effective strategy. Whatever doubts Loki had of Thor’s intentions, he has overcome them now. If anything, he anticipates more than Thor would ever ask of him. 

“I won’t do it,” Loki insists, backing away. “Whatever you’ve done, whatever you want, you cannot force me to help you.”

He gasps when Thor lunges forward and grasps his upper arms, the force of the action enough to shake his balance momentarily. The way his eyes widen shames Thor deeply, but Thor does not release his hold.

“I cannot promise I would never hurt you, brother,” Thor tells him earnestly, “we know each other too well for that. But know that I will _never_ stand by and watch you destroyed, or rest while you suffer at another’s hand. Not while I can act to prevent it. Not while I still draw breath.”

With that, his eyes locked to Loki’s, their breaths still exploding between them, Thor reaches a hand to his hairline at the base of his left ear and presses firmly on the small metal panel embedded there.The nano technology responds to his touch like a blooming flower, expanding smoothly to cup the base of his skull and settle a probing arm flush against the scalp behind his temple.

The cell around them snaps out of existence in a bewildering realignment of colour and form.

Loki pushes himself from Thor’s awkward grasp and stumbles backward, his eyes wild as he takes in their surroundings. 

“What is this?” he demands shrilly, panic close to the surface.

The splendor of their mother’s chambers is all that Thor remembers. And of course it is, pulled as it is from the depths of his recollection, projected into being by the unfathomable technology of his genius mortal friend.

He has revisited this scene so many times, Thor is almost certain not a detail has been missed.

Light streams in from the tall windows and catches at the motes that dance in the air. The breeze plays with their diaphanous hangings, billowing and pulling at them with a light surrusus of movement. And on the tiles beneath, his mother’s blood shines ruby bright where it spreads from beneath her fallen body.

Behind him, Thor registers distantly the movements of his brother as Loki snatches for a means of escape. He examines the hands that pass through every weapon and exit, finally turning an accusatory glare upon the agent of his humiliation. When he notices what holds Thor’s attention he goes rigid, though Thor now has eyes only for the sight before him.

Their father cradles their mother’s head, his lips moving in silent prayer over her inert form. Thor’s younger self stands on the balcony behind, tears streaming down his face, frozen in a grief so intense it locks him in place. 

“You see what your actions have led us to,” the Allfather says calmly from his place by his wife’s side. The phantom addresses his words not to the Thor of the memory, but to Thor as he is now, the Thor who has lived through this day once before, and many times in his dreams since. 

These are words that Odin did not utter when this wretched scene came to pass. In truth, that day played out much as battle does, as a series of blunt and muted moments, driven by reflex and barely registered. Of dulled sensations and deep shades of red. Of disconnection, denial and meaningless platitudes.

It is as Stark had warned. Thor is at the mercy of his own guilt and shame, whether he would will it or no. If the scene is not entirely faithful to that which truly transpired, it at least amplifies those elements of greatest import. There will be no comfort here. Neither he nor Loki will have anywhere to hide. 

“What is this,” Loki says again at his shoulder, the tremble to his voice enough to betray that he has already guessed.

“This is what waits for us, a short time from now. This is the price our folly commands, yours and mine both.”


	2. Chapter 2

Loki stares past Thor to the picture before them and says nothing more. What must be going through his mind, Thor can only guess. Distracted as he is by his own resurfacing grief, it is difficult to concern himself either way. But he must if he’s to achieve anything by this. He must push his own pain from his mind. He must focus on the purpose of this agonising reimagining and on the meaning it will hold for his brother, unprepared though he is for so brutal a sight. 

“She gave her life for Jane’s,” Thor says somewhat distantly. “She defended you to the end, and she did what she could to protect us. Both of us.”

The scene replays itself in full, though much of it is a construct of Thor’s beleaguered mind. He was not there when it counted, of course. 

Malekith’s dark plans. The threat to Jane. Frigga’s staunch refusal. Thor’s too late reprisal despite his every effort to defend his mother from harm. 

Even now, the horror Thor feels is enough to steal the breath from his body. 

From the corner of his eye, Thor catalogues every twitch and frown Loki makes. He seems at first incredulous, as though this eventuality is so far from his imagining as to be completely beyond belief. Some dark emotion swiftly replaces this, and as the narrative progresses a look of accusation replaces the shock there but a moment before. Loki turns a glare upon his brother, its attention only diverted when the figure of their mother appears before them both.

“Mourn me, but do not despair,” Frigga says to Thor, her tremulous outline standing sadly over where she lays slain. “Take this as the lesson it is. I will wait for you, and watch over you both. My sons. My children.”

The lump in Thor’s throat chokes him and he cannot speak to answer. She reaches a hand out to cup his face, and the tear that runs down it goes unnoticed.

“Take care of your brother,” Frigga entreats him, a gentle smile her last gift. 

Thor returns it, sadly, and Frigga’s form begins to dissipate.

Behind him, Loki raises a hand and erases the entire spectacle with a sharp gesture. Where before Frigga’s form lay serene even in death, there is now a space ironed smooth to marble.

It has not taken long for Loki to master the strange magics of Midgard’s most knowledgeable practitioners. The thought is as comforting as it is alarming. 

Thor takes control of himself, thrusting the raw emotion the visions have stirred firmly to one side.

“I do not show you this to hurt you, Loki,” Thor says. “I mean only to help you see.”

“Spare me your lessons,” Loki spits in return. “I care little for your imagined tragedies and even less for whatever point you think they serve. If you think you can win me over with this pathetic attempt at familial compassion you’re even more of a fool than I took you for.”

Thor allows himself to a moment to close his eyes in silent mourning. He forgives Loki his scepticism and envies his ignorance, but he must push on. He will honour his mother regardless, and hopes that in time his brother will forgive him in turn for his failure.

It is a simple matter of focus and concentration for the scene around them to shift, and as the skeletal outlines of the room around them fold neatly away, new pictures form to replace them.

A cell of a new kind is conjured into being, and a conversation much like this one takes place between its occupants. Thor notes with a hint of dry amusement that their roles were much reversed that day in spite of the similar circumstances, with Thor the reluctant party and Loki the world-weary petitioner.

The words that pass between them seem hollow to Thor now. 

They effect their escape and craft their plans, squandering what small chance they have for meaningful exchange on posturing, slights and redirected anger. For all the catharsis their fighting brings, there is much left unsaid. The missed opportunities pain Thor now to witness, yet behind him Loki lounges against the wall with an affectation of boredom. If he is listening to the small snatches of truth the two of them manage to exchange, he pretends not to hear them. Thor expects this and does not linger here.

Time speeds forward to erase much of their long journey and the stilted silence of the craft as they travel. Thor glances wistfully a the figure of Jane at the skiff’s bow but soon refocuses his attention on the new scene forming from nothing. 

Thor shivers to remember this place. He fancies he can feel the slick shift of silica beneath his feet even as he remains standing on the hard surface of the cell floor. A misremembered stench of ruin and old smoke coats every porous surface of his body, and even now the thrill of impending danger has his muscles pulling taut. 

The battle is already in full swing, slain elves littering the ground around the two of them as they dance with deadly skill. When the Kursed raises his blade to smite Thor a terminal blow, the counterstrike his brother delivers stirs a triumphant admiration in him even now.

The rest is difficult to watch. The retaliation the Kursed delivers, the clever ruse his brother reveals around gasps of pain, the finality of the grenade’s completion. Thor’s knees weaken all over again to imagine catching his folding brother, the blood slick and hot beneath fingers that clutch tightly to Loki’s rigid form.

Thor’s past self lowers his brother to the ground with a desperate reluctance that sears his lungs even now. He is caught up in it, dragged along by a suffocating sense of responsibility he knows younger siblings will never quite understand.

This is his doing. His responsibility. He has failed in the one sacred duty entrusted to him a lifetime ago, enforced upon him by birth and circumstance yet strengthened by bonds of love long forged and tempered. 

“No!” his dream self insists to an unfeeling sky. “What have you done?”

The Loki in his arms whispers words that cut to his core, and even knowing what he does now of how they have been used since, Thor still feels tears surface at their uttering. 

It is hard to look away, but look away Thor must. He focuses his attention on the figure at his back, the effort to surface from the memory one that demands much of him. 

Loki watches all this with something of a haughty air, and although he tries to hide how much the scene has affected him, Thor has learned to read between the lines of his brother’s bluster.

Loki turns from the scene with a derisive huff and pours some much diluted venom over his shoulder. “You are deceived, _brother_ ,” he scoffs. “I see you are as easy to play now as you always were.”

This is of course true, Thor must admit. However these events came about, it is obvious now that he was fooled, his willingness to believe the best of his brother enough to blind him to the true events that passed that day. He suspects there is more to the tale than he has managed to extract from his brother yet, the best lies always holding an element of truth, but whatever truly transpired he may never discover. 

_I didn’t do it for him_ still rings in Thor’s ears as the scene shifts. 

When they watch their father’s last goodbye, Loki remains silent. Gone are his snide remarks, the affectation of boredom, the mocking disbelief. He is much as he was on that same day not all that long past -- quiet, pensive, caught between a truth he wants to believe and a lie he has taken for his own. He shutters his face against any sort of expression, and when Hela dispatches them both he has not a single word to say.

Thor presses on, sparing not a detail from the story he must tell. Their separation on the Bifrost (Thor thinks that perhaps Loki winces at this, but if he does he covers it well), the landing on Sakaar, their reunion under the amused condescension of the Grandmaster. It says something of Thor’s state of mind at the time that the projections his recall produce do not paint his brother in the best of lights during these moments, but then the shining threads of any fabric only stand out with the plain cloth behind to contrast them. 

Loki remains silent throughout this retelling, his sullen demeanor always at Thor’s back.

When Thor’s past self and Loki’s future one defeat their sister and abandon their home in glory and ruin, Loki finally breaks his silence.

With laughter. Incredulous, mocking laughter.

“Oh, come now, Thor!” he chides, breathless not with mirth but with the effort it takes to push the harsh sounds past the pain in his ribs. To Thor it sounds forced and false, but he does not comment on it. “I admit the rest had some troubling realism to it, but this is beyond far-fetched. I’ve always thought you an unimaginitive creature, but clearly I’ve underestimated your capacity for self-delusion.” 

Thor lets this insult go unanswered. The irritation he might ordinarily feel has fled him, though he almost wishes for it now. He is sorry for what he must do, for the pain he must cause, for the final defence he must strip from his brother. He approaches Loki slowly, pity and stern determination warring for dominion in his breast. He keeps his eyes locked on his brother’s face as he wills the scene to change one last time, a cowardly part of him thankful to be spared the view now at his back.

Loki’s eyes go wide as the space around them darkens, a shuddering groan ripping through the projected hull now enclosing the room. The distant booms of pounding weaponry reverberate in Thor’s chest even without an accompanying jolt of movement. Without turning to look, Thor imagines the smoke curling and drifting along the corridor’s ceiling, the bursts of liquid sparks as infrastructure fails, the glow of heat from fire approaching every corner and intersection. 

And at the port window beyond, a huge looming presence blots out the stars.

There is recognition now in the fixed gaze of Loki’s eyes. Recognition, realisation and terror.

He sees now. He sees beyond doubt. This can be no trick. No fanciful story created by Thor’s mind, no manufactured narrative meant simply to manipulate him. It cannot be dismissed and discounted. The monstrosity assailing them is one only he has seen before this day. 

Loki’s throat works soundlessly, and Thor must close his eyes against his brother’s raw and unguarded distress.

The urgent conversation proceeding at Thor’s back is one he almost does not recall, the adrenaline and the urgency of their situation conspiring to overwrite it in his mind. The memories are evidently there, and now that he has opportunity to review them, he gleans meaning that passed him by before.

Loki is arguing with him, stridently. The plan they are formulating is being beaten into shape as they run, half-remembered orders being barked to the frantic people they pass along the way. Loki’s resistance had been maddening, Thor remembers now. He had not had the time to consider why in the moment.

“They will follow you!” Thor’s past self is insisting, breaking off to give directions to a small group of fleeing people. 

“The Valkyrie is perfectly capable--”

“But she is not either of _us_. Don’t play ignorant with me now, Loki. One of us must lead. You know this.”

An explosion knocks the two of them against the bulkhead with bruising force, but they are quick to recover. Loki’s future self makes a frustrated sound.

“And again I say, that one should be you! Do not pass this burden onto me, Thor. I’ve had my taste of it and I like it little. Stop being so selfish for once in your life and _listen_ to what I am telling you--”

Thor’s projection turns to grasp his brother’s shoulders, halting their flight through the bowels of the ship and the nauseating movement the technology has been conjuring into being. A multitude of feeling is communicated in the look they share, Thor knows, though the words to follow do little to scratch its surface. “If I am lost… they will need you. Do this for me, brother, and I will have nothing to fear. Please, for me. Keep them safe.”

 _And keep yourself safe with them_.

Loki returns a long and unhappy look, and Thor simply grins. “Besides,” Thor says with a casual air he knows he didn’t really feel, “who better to make a clean getaway?”

He claps Loki’s shoulders and turns to sprint away, ignoring the exasperated screech Loki barely contains. “All will be well, brother,” Thor calls over his shoulder as Loki’s form recedes behind him. “I’ve always found you before now!”

As Thor’s projection heads away, he hears his name yelled after him like a curse.

The battle progresses from there as a blur, foes dispatched and civilians urged to flee in a series of scenes that flash before Thor’s eyes. He watches his past self join with what scant fighters he can find, a motley collection of Sakaaran gladiators and those few Asgardian warriors they had among the refugees. Heimdall he encounters in the thick of it, and together they carve their way through the hordes of creatures spilling onto the ship.

The fighting is long. Thor’s sword arm grows weary simply watching this retelling, and as the moment he awaits approaches, he is thankful there will not be much more to come.

The creature that moves to take Heimdall down does not suspect the fate that awaits it, no more than the Thor of the moment can predict its demise. Thor remembers the instant of helpless panic, the arc of the creature’s weapon that no effort of his own could avert. The shout of warning he gives is too late for Heimdall to turn, though the gatekeeper sees the blade coming well enough.

Heimdall is bracing for the blow to deflect as much damage as he can when the creature goes rigid, its blade dropping from nerveless claws as its nearest compatriot runs it through. Before it can hit the floor Loki reveals his ruse with a shimmer of fading seidr.

“I leave you alone for two minutes,” he says with a quirk of his lips.

Thor sees once again the effort this small illusion has cost him, though his irreverent humour would seek to hide it. Thor may not be schooled in the ways of seidr as his brother is, but he recognises strain when he sees it. He is as confident now as he was then that the immense working Loki has performed has been costly. 

“They are away?” the Thor of the memory asks anyway, even knowing the answer.

Loki is serious when he replies, an apology implicit in his tone even as he stands there in defiance of his king’s order. “It is done.” 

Whether the pods make it in safety from there, Thor never does discover. He can only pray that Loki’s glamour was enough to spare some of his people the worst of the fates that the battle with Thanos eventually brought. 

The rest is almost more than Thor can bear to relive. Only the shame it would bring him to look away while he would inflict this upon Loki keeps him from dropping his head. The Black Order master them with an ease and cruelty that defies reason, and before long their remaining forces are defeated, Heimdall lying mortally wounded at their feet.

He turns now to reach for his brother as the final scene runs its ugly course. Loki pulls the shoulder Thor would grasp sharply from his reach, and as Thanos moves to exact his final vengeance Loki clamps his hands in his hair as he turns way.

“Enough!” he shouts, and it is but the movement of his hand for Thor to wipe the vision clean. The scene fades in flickering pixels, layers folding into one another to reveal their true surroundings, the cold, stark cell and sterile glass that offers no comfort or shelter.

Bland lights now hum in otherwise innocuous quiet, the steady blink of the surveillance cameras the only remaining sign of life. The codes Thor has infected the system with will play back the footage from the cell as it was recorded originally, and but for the terrible knowledge his brother now owns, not a soul will learn of what has transpired here. 

They have some time yet before any risk of discovery. Enough to learn the fallout of what Thor has set into motion.

Even now, he is sorry to have done this. It has not been his intention to torture his brother, nor does he revel in Loki’s distress. It is a necessary evil, one both of them must suffer if they are to triumph in the end.

Loki’s shoulders heave, his back turned but his anguished breathing loud for both of them to hear. Thor does not think to approach him again. The embrace he so dearly craves would not be welcome now. May be lost to him forever, in fact. He can no more be its initiator than he can demand his brother’s love, not while so much time and distance hangs between them. That distance may never be closed if Thor’s plan to alter events is successful. It is a likelihood he carries with great sorrow, but one he is determined to see through to the end nonetheless.

“Loki…”

Loki whirls, tears shining in his eyes, anger and anguish trembling in his voice. “What is the meaning of this,” he tries one last time, clutching at denial as though it has any protection left in it. “How have you invented this... this sorry excuse for a tale--”

“I am not one for illusions, brother. You know that.”

This switches Loki from hot to cool in an instant, and the closer they come to the crux of the matter the tighter the band around Thor’s chest grows. 

“Do not paint me as the hero, Thor,” Loki hisses. “Do not project your lofty ideals onto me and expect them to fit. I am nothing like you. I harbour no secret desire for your approval. There is no noble side of me hidden in the shadows. I do not long to be redeemed. I rain chaos on those around me and I laugh as they burn.” 

It is a pitiful attempt, but no less sharp for all that. Thor has cut himself on Loki’s defences many times before, shredding himself to ribbons the more weight he threw against them. But not this time. This time Thor sees the purpose of these words and the persona they would conjure. It is the ferocity of a wounded animal, an illusion of strength woven by the magic of speech alone. Thor wonders now why it took him so long to see it all for what it is.

“You do not want to believe me. Then see for yourself.” Thor holds his arms to the side in invitation. Let them be done with this. Let them finally come to this last chance, the one Thor will gamble the fate of the universe upon. 

“I will not stop you,” Thor continues. “You have all the proof you could need in this very room, if you choose to see it.” 

Loki remains as he is, suspicion and reluctance mixing together, fear and doubt conspiring against him even as he is determined to deny the truth. Thor feels his own impatience rising, an edge of panic to it.

He seizes Loki’s arm at the wrist and tugs him forward with a force borne of desperation. He presses Loki’s palm to his head and holds it there, their eyes locked together.

“Do it,” he commands, his voice rough with emotion. “I know you can. I know you have that power. If you’re so certain this is all a construct of my imagination you have nothing to fear, so just _do it_! Prove me wrong!”

Loki’s expression spasms but he cannot look away. He does not fight Thor’s grip, and when Thor drops his hold, Loki remains frozen in place. He squeezes his eyes shut and Thor almost thinks he will not do it, then with a grimace and a growl his seidr surges forward.

_For all that everything seems slowed and ponderous, moments drawn out into full instances of exquisite joy and pain, the many impressions Thor sees act to constrict these past years into a concentration almost too intense to withstand._

_First there is the grief of his brother’s loss, the pain of it twisted by anger and betrayal, guilt and doubt, and beyond that bewildering tangle a great many questions that cannot be answered. He does not know how this could have happened. He does not know what he could have done. He does not know why he didn’t see it, why he didn’t stop it, why he couldn’t make a difference when it mattered. The confusion is as unbearable as the certainty that he was somehow at fault and still cannot quite grasp why._

_Then there is anger. Previous betrayals pale in comparison to what he feels now, and despite the purity and righteousness of his ire there is also a slow dawning horror. He mourns what he has lost all the more for it and begins to lose faith, his victory bitter and the peace it brings tainted. The signs he should have seen he discounts, his hurt too great to overcome._

_Next there is sorrow. And blame. And guilt. Still he cannot break free from the defences his heart has built. Not until it is too late. Not until sorrow follows sorrow and the blood on his hands is twofold. The shame that follows is his to shoulder alone._

_Weariness steals the joy he should feel next. He doesn’t let himself hope, not this time. He resigns himself to one final loss, a loss by choice this time, and if by pushing his brother away he can finally have something returned he is not sorry for it._

_The small glimmers of happiness he can snatch after so many defeats are short-lived but burn bright, and the resurgence of hope kindles others from the ashes. There is pride there, pride for every life saved, for every glimpse of the brother he once knew, for every possibility open to them now. The road will be hard, but it will not be one Thor has to travel alone. His gratitude he will repay a thousandfold._

_But finally there is regret. Regret and pride and love and a crushing, suffocating loss. His grief is white hot, a sentient agony that drives him to correct all that has led to this terrible, senseless future. All the lost opportunities, the stolen reparations, the chance to mend all that is so broken discarded like something worthless -- it is more than he can bear._

_He is reckless in the face of it, and he decides that if he dies or lives it is of little consequence._

They break away from each other gasping, Loki clutching his hand to his body as though he has been scalded. He stares at Thor wide-eyed, his gaze liquid and shimmering with unshed tears. Thor’s own burn at his eyes and he must force his breath past a closing throat. He feels as though he might shatter, but he cannot break down, not now. This is no more than the suffering he carries with him every day, and he will weather it. He _must_. 

“Is this some sort of punishment?” Loki half-whispers, his voice rough with hurt and a half-suspected betrayal. “A foretelling of all my many mistakes and the bitter fruits they will bear? Is this a reckoning of all the many ways I have failed you?”

For a moment Thor cannot breathe well enough to answer, the struggle to control himself almost beyond his strength. 

Can Loki not see? Even now, can he not see that if this is a catalogue of errors, they are as much Thor’s as his?

“I have not come here for revenge,” he manages finally to say, his voice hoarse but unyielding. “I have come here for you. For all of us.”

Loki averts his eyes, and suddenly he seems small and diminished. “So this is what you would ask of me, then. For a way to defeat the Mad Titan. For my aid in the fight to come.”

Oh how Thor’s heart clenches. That his brother would misunderstand him even now. That he would undervalue his place in Thor’s heart, blind to the regard and the love Thor holds for him, deaf to the simple truth that Thor has never wanted anything so much as the return of his brother to his side. 

Stepping forward, he clasps a hand at his brother’s nape and urges Loki to meet his eyes. That Loki allows this speaks more clearly than his words ever could.

“Loki,” Thor urges thickly. “ _Brother_. I would ask your forgiveness.” 

Loki’s face crumples then, and it is but a small effort for Thor to tip him forward and into his arms. He guides Loki’s head to press against his shoulder, the heat of his shuddering exhales soaking into the skin there, and wraps his other arm across his back. His own tears he allows to flow freely. 

How Thor has longed for this. To finally release all that he has kept contained these last years, to seek the comfort he has so long been denied and to ease some of the torment he has seen in his brother’s haunted eyes. He tightens his hold the longer they remain and although Loki does not return it, neither does he fight to pull away. 

Thor strokes his hair and makes a silent vow to the first fathers and any other ancestors that are listening. He will do all he can to protect his brother and earn back his loyalty. If fate will only grant him a reprieve, he will not waste this new chance he has been given. When he feels Loki’s fingers clutch blindly at the fabric at his front he releases a long breath that carries with it some of his guilt, and a tension eases within him that has been his companion for longer than he can remember. 

They remain that way for some time, their breathing calming, the intensity slowly ebbing away. 

After a last deep and wet sounding breath, Loki extricates himself carefully from Thor’s embrace. He swipes roughly at his face but will not look his brother in the eye, though Thor ducks his head to try to catch it. 

“A wasted journey,” Loki says in answer to the request Thor has made. He flicks a hand vaguely to indicate the vision that has long since disappeared. “I see you already have it. But you cannot have it from me.” Then reluctantly, more quietly: “Not yet.”

This pains Thor, this one last tiny shard. Of course it does. But he has more than he could have hoped for, and balanced against all that he has overcome it is a small thing indeed. 

He cannot contain the hope that warms his core and steals over his face, though he strives to hide it as best he can. “I can be patient,” he says with a tremulous smile, and if Loki doesn’t exactly return it, he does glance away with something resembling acceptance. 

“How did you get in here, anyway?” Loki sniffs, a signal that he will entertain the matter no further. He turns his back to compose himself, and Thor is content to leave things there for now. So be it. If all goes as planned, they will have time yet to heal.

Thor allows himself a smile, pleased with how easily the expression now comes. “You’re not the only one with secrets, Loki.”

Loki nods at this, but Thor can tell he is not really listening. Already his bearing has begun to change, a semblance of his old self returning as he plans their next move. Thor is reminded of all the times he has missed his brother’s shrewd counsel and hopes he will have need to count on it many more times to come.

“We will need my sceptre,” Loki thinks aloud, turning back to capture Thor’s attention after a hesitation Thor only notices because he knows to look for it. “And one other thing.”

Thor allows his smile to widen into one reminiscent of the Loki of old, and his brother responds to it with equal parts caution and approval.

“Let me guess,” Thor says, bringing a hand from behind his back and flipping the object hidden there neatly in the air. “Something like this?”

The tesseract glows eagerly in Thor’s palm, its light bathing them in a wash of blue.

“Why yes,” Loki agrees, a glimpse of his old mischief returning. “That will do nicely.”

“Lead on?”

The grin is sly and just a little bit manic. For once, it’s one Thor knows he can trust absolutely. “I’d be delighted.”

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments always make my day, kind readers.
> 
> And if you like, come find me over on Tumblr as [mudgemsfic](https://mudgemsfic.tumblr.com/) <3


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